The natives were becoming harder to control into the bargain, took to filching fish, spades, shovels and what few vegetables had managed to survive on a fertile isle to the east of the cove where the big Government Farm was under construction in the hope that the ground would be ready for wheat by September. If this ground could ever grow wheat. Men sent to cut rushes for thatch in a bay farther around than Garden Island were first attacked by some Indians, who wounded one; after that two men were killed in the same place. A search up the stream to its swampy source revealed the carcasses of several big lizards decomposing in it, a signal that the natives were neither stupid nor unaware of how to foul water.
Guard duty for the marines grew more taxing as the settlement expanded on a needs-must basis. A tree Sir Joseph Banks had classified as casuarina was found to yield very good shingle timber, but was located some distance away around the stream swamp, and excellent brick clay was discovered a mile inland. The parties foraged into virgin territory and had to be guarded. To make matters worse, the natives were less gun-shy and bolder in their stealing forays, it seemed aware that the orders were not to harm them at any cost.
Governor Phillip went to explore another harbor in the north called Broken Bay, only to return dejected; it afforded good shelter for ships, but had no arable land whatsoever. His Excellency had the best reasons for his dejection. The Heads of a Plan as prepared at the Home Office had blithely assumed that crops would shoot out of ground needing only to be tickled, that splendid timber would be readily available for all conceivable purposes, that the livestock would multiply by leaps and bounds, and that within a year New South Wales would be virtually self-sufficient. Hence the neglect on the part of the Home Office, the Admiralty and the contractor to make sure that there really were three years’ worth of supplies with the fleet. The reality was more like a year, which meant that the first storeship due would not come in time. And how could men—or women—work fruitfully when they were perpetually hungry?
Two months around Sydney Cove, as the original landing place was called, had proven only that this place was hard, indifferently and indiscriminately cruel. It seemed mighty, changeless and alien, the kind of land wherein men might eventually scratch a subsistence living but never truly prosper. The natives, primitive in the extreme to English eyes, were a very accurate indicator of what New South Wales promised: misery allied to squalor.
The last week of March saw a cessation in the thunderstorms and the worst of that humid heat. Those possessed of hats had turned them into Yankey headpieces by snapping tricorn brims down all around, but Richard had kept his tricorn a tricorn because he had his bark shelter to work in and his straw sailor’s hat—and because he liked to be properly dressed for Sunday service. The habits of Bristol died hard.
Sunday service was held in any one of a number of places, but on Sunday the 23rd of March—the third anniversary of his conviction and sentence at Gloucester—it happened near the bachelor marines’ camp on a stack of rocky shelves which gave the congregation some chance to see and hear the Reverend Mr. Richard Johnson exhort them in the Name of the Lord to rein in their shameful urges and join the ranks of those who were marrying.
Having resolved on a course of action, Richard had wanted to pray and receive enlightenment, but the sermon did not do a thing to help. Instead, God answered him by presenting him with the figure of Stephen Donovan, who ranged himself alongside Richard and walked with him around the cove, across the stepping stones and down to the water’s edge near the new farm.
“Terrible, is it not?” asked Donovan, breaking the silence as they sat, arms around their knees, on a rock five feet above the placidly lapping water. “I hear that it takes six men a whole week to grub out one stump from yon wheat field, and that the Governor has decided the ground will have to be hoed by hand to receive the grain, for put a plough in it he dares not.”
“And that in turn means that one day I will not eat,” said Richard, taking off his best coat and disposing his person in the shade of an overhanging tree. “How thin the shade is here.”
“And how hard the life. Still,” said Donovan, flicking dead leaves into the water, “it will improve, you know. ’Tis like any brand-new venture, at its worst during the first six months. I am never sure why it then begins to look more bearable, save perhaps that the strangeness goes away. One thing is certain. Whenever it was that God made this corner of the globe, He used a different template.” His voice dropped, grew softer. “Only the strong will survive, and you will be one of those who survives.”
“Oh, ye can depend on that, Mr. Donovan. If I managed Ceres and Alexander, I can manage this. Nay, I do not despair. But I have missed ye. How goes Alexander and dear fat Esmeralda?”
“I would not know, Richard, for I am not in Alexander. The parting of the ways came after I caught Esmeralda opening all the convicts’ belongings and parcels stored in his holds. To see what he could sell for a fortune.”
“Bastard.”
“Oh, Sinclair is all of that and more.” The long, supple body stretched and twisted luxuriously. “I have a far better berth now. You see, I fell in love.”
Richard smiled. “With whom, Mr. Donovan?”
“Would you believe, Captain Hunter’s valet? Johnny Livingstone. As Sirius is down six or seven seamen, I applied to join her crew, and was accepted. Captain Hunter’s nose may be a trifle out of joint over the affair, but he ain’t about to turn down a seaman of my experience. So I am on good rations and have a little love into the bargain.”
“I am pleased,” said Richard sincerely. “Also very glad to see ye on this day above all others. As it is a Sunday, I do not have to work. Which means that I am at your disposal. I need an ear.”
“Only say the word and ye can have more than an ear.”
“Thank you for the offer, but remember Johnny Livingstone.”
“The water,” said Mr. Donovan, “looks good enough to sport in. I would, but for the fact that Sirius caught a shark the other day measured six and a half feet around the shoulders. Inside Port Jackson!” He rolled up his coat for a pillow and lay flat. “I never did ask ye, Richard—did ye succeed in swimming?”
“Oh, aye. The moment I imitated Wallace, it was easy. Joey Long got his pup, by the way. Winsome little fellow, rats a treat. Eats better than we do, though I am not tempted to change to his diet.”
“Have ye seen a kangaroo?”
“Not even the swish of a tail through the trees. But I do not get out of camp—I sharpen our wretched saws and axes.” Richard sat up. “I do not suppose Sirius has any butter of antimony?”
The thick black lashes lifted, the eyes gleamed blue. “Cow’s butter we have, but not any other kind. How d’ye know about things like butter of antimony?”
“Any good saw setter and sharpener does.”
“Not any I ever met before.” The lids fell. “A lovely Sunday, here in the open air with you. I will enquire about the butter. I also hear that the timber is unsawable.”
“Not quite, just exceeding slow work. Made slower because the saws are rubbish. Everything, in fact, seems to be rubbish.” Richard’s face hardened. “That is how I know what England thinks of us. She equipped her rubbish with rubbish. She did not give us a fair chance to succeed. But there are some like me who are more steeled and stubborn knowing that.”
Donovan got to his feet. “Make me a promise,” he said, putting on his hat.
Conscious of huge disappointment, Richard tried to look as if this abrupt departure did not matter. “Name it,” he said.
“I will be gone an hour. Wait here for me.”
